


brown ink on the back of yellowing photographs

by obeetaybee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-27
Updated: 2009-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obeetaybee/pseuds/obeetaybee





	brown ink on the back of yellowing photographs

_**brown ink on the back of yellowing photographs**_  
2500 words  
girl!Sam/Dean  
 **warnings** Adult, incest, early season one, very AU.  
 **notes** So, I’m in the process of writing this epic girl!Sam/Dean/Sam fic and because of that, I keep getting these little glimpses in my head of girl!Sam/Dean’s past. This is one of them. Comments and concrit welcomed, unbeta’d.

 **brown ink on the back of yellowing photographs**

> "Dean, I just, I just don't understand why he's not answering our calls, why he keeps sending us on these stupid hunts. I'm just tired of his shit, okay?"
> 
> She rips the coverlet off the bed, violently throwing it in the corner. She sits down on the edge of bed, and bites the dead skin along her thumbnail.
> 
> Dean drops a duffel bag just inside the door, shutting it behind him. "Sam, how many times do we have to go over--"
> 
> "Enough, I get it already. You always take his side," she says, eyes on him as he sheds his coat, "Dad can do no wrong. Forget it, you're no help." Sam looks down at her Adidas Sambas, tugs on one of the long tongues before standing and walking to the window, glaring out, trying to find the stars and failing.
> 
> "Look, I'm sorry this isn't the way you want things to go and just so you know, I don't like this any more than you do. I'm just not getting all bitchy about it."
> 
> Sam turns, arms crossed against her chest. "Bitchy," she says, taking a deep breath and smiling tightly at the stained rug, chuckling under her breath. "You've got a lot of fucking nerve calling me bitchy. My boyfriend is dead, Dean, remember? He was carved up, pinned to a ceiling and set on fire. You and I both know the authorities in Palo Alto still aren't convinced I didn't have anything to do with it. Christ, for all I know there's a warrant out for my arrest."
> 
> Dean picks up the remote and turns the tv on, volume loud on a squealing game show contestant. "There's no warrant, I just checked the database the other day."
> 
> She looks up, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Nice of you to share the 411, Dean. Did you see how Jess's family wouldn't even look at me at the funeral? They won't take my calls anymore," she drops her arms and stalks to the television, switching it off again. "And the only person who knows, who knows anything at all about what the fuck we're dealing with is gone. Missing. God knows where and calling us from untraceable numbers, sending us coordinates over email and cryptic text messages. He's just-- _poof_. So I think that maybe I'm _allowed_ to be a little upset, what do you say?"
> 
> Dean reaches for her and she shies away, bending at the waist to avoid his hands. "Don't touch me, Dean."
> 
> "Sam--"
> 
> "No," she glares up at him, arms crossed across her stomach. "And you know what? Riddle me this Batman: why do you keep getting rooms with just one bed?"
> 
> Dean stares at her, opening his mouth to speak, but her hand slashes the air and cuts him off. "Forget it. I know why. Just leave. Leave me alone for a little while."
> 
> "Sam," he tries one more time.
> 
> But she turns back to the window, staring beyond the fire escape at the colors reflected in the puddles down below. A car horn honks, another answering it, the traffic noises loud in their rented room.
> 
> He huffs behind her and she can hear the slide of the leather-- _Dad's old coat_ , she thinks. She blinks slowly when the door closes behind him, and watches him a few minutes later when he steps into traffic, her breath catching in her throat as his hand flies out before a car stopping just in time. Sam stares at his back until he disappears into the bar across the street.
> 
> Even though the rain stopped sometime before, everything is wet and shiny, the store signs lit up like sunshine, the blue, red and yellow neon bright and festive. It's like trying to slap a new coat of paint on a house that's crumbling and decaying underneath, ugly and sad and broken.
> 
> Sam sighs and sits down, elbows on the table, hands rubbing over her face, covering her ears and squeezing. She's so tired of feeling like this, the constant hurt and guilt. Of her skin constantly crawling, hot and tight over bones that ache with every move she makes. She's tired of clenching her jaw and fighting the urge to pull hair from her scalp in frustration. She's just so fucking tired of _waiting_.
> 
> Sometimes the job helps, the .45 recoiling in her hand, the echoing shot deafening in her ears, the struck match burning sulfur and salt into her nose while she watches the dead burn. But it's not enough to keep her sane. Time in the car always follows, Mullet Rock at maximum volume, the scenery not interesting enough to keep her busy and all she can do is think, brood, remember.
> 
> And Dean keeps looking at her.
> 
> It isn't like before, when Dean was the secret hidden in the past, the one who's kisses seared her skin, he who was able to calm her with just a touch of his fingers to the back of her neck.
> 
> The rules have changed; the line being drawn between them, blocked and solid. Every time she catches his eyes, she can see the question he's been silently asking for weeks.
> 
> If she chooses Dean, if she chooses to find whatever comfort she can in his arms, this time she'll have chosen this world, chosen to be a hunter and her life expectancy will drop exponentially. She'll have no right to be moody and sullen anymore, the old ' _I didn't ask for this_ ' argument moot. If she chooses him, she'll be in this for keeps.
> 
> Until one or both of them are dead.
> 
> But the thing is, as much as she wants Dean, because the truth is she's never stopped wanting Dean, she's just not sure it'll help. Will fucking him stop the nightmares? Will it stop the hellish visions of people she's never even seen before dying gruesome deaths every time she closes her eyes? Will it mean she'll stop seeing the yellow-eyed man, will it stop him from touching her in her dreams, whispering the horrible things he wants her to do soon? Will Dean's touch calm the anxiety constantly moving and vibrating just below the surface of her skin like millions of tiny, invisible insects?
> 
> Will it stop her from seeing Jess burning on the ceiling over and over again?
> 
> Would it be worth it to find out?
> 
> There's no answer in the cracked Formica tabletop and it's late, so Sam changes into a tank and a pair of Dean's boxers, falling backwards on the bed, arms spread and staring up at the water stain shaped like New Jersey as if it has all the answers to the universe.
> 
> The door unlocks an hour or so later, Dean's eyes going to the bed before catching sight of her in front of the open laptop on the table. "Thought maybe you'd be asleep, is it safe to come in?" he asks, shifting the brown bag to his other arm, turning to close the door. "You're not going to shoot me or anything, right?"
> 
> Sam pushes the laptop closed with her fingertips and stands, shaking her head. "I was doing some research on the case. Did you bring home beer?"
> 
> Dean nods and walks towards her, pushing the laptop out of the way and putting the bag down on the table. "Just a six pack."
> 
> Sam opens the bag and peeks in. "That'll work," she says, snagging a beer and cracking it open. She takes a deep pull, swallows and covers her nose with the back of the hand holding the bottle. "Holy shit, Dean. You reek."
> 
> He smiles, shrugging out of his leather coat. He cracks his neck and grabs a bottle, falling into the chair before her. "It was dark and the girls were hot. I didn't notice the smell."
> 
> A rush of jealousy heats up her spine. "I don't want to hear about no nasty strippers. Go take a shower or something."
> 
> Dean drinks his beer, eyes sliding down her body. "Are those mine?" he finally asks, Sam blaming her sudden flush on the beer she's gulping down.
> 
> "Yeah, so?" She burps behind her hand, finishing the first bottle. She grabs the elastic waist of the boxers with her other hand and pulls down, showing the curve of her pelvic bone. "You want them back?"
> 
> Dean coughs and tilts his head, staring, as if trying to gauge what she's selling. He puts the bottle down on the table and stands. "Huh. Maybe I will go take that shower now."
> 
> Sam watches him walk away from her, shedding his flannel shirt and pulling his t-shirt over his head and throwing them on the bed. At the bathroom door he turns and looks at her, hand on the jamb. She bites her bottom lip at his bare chest, the whiteness of his briefs showing through the open v of his jeans.
> 
> Suddenly she's fighting an urge to lick and suck the skin there. Closing her eyes, she turns away.
> 
> The water turns on and she sits on the bed, crossing her legs under her and staring at the closed bathroom door. He's naked now, she imagines, one big hand testing the water before stepping into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed behind him. Maybe he'll soap up first before grasping his cock and pulling until it hardens. He'll jerk himself off thinking about her, remembering what it feels like to plunge his dick in her over and over again until hot come splashes on the bottom of the tub.
> 
> She groans and presses her hand over her pussy, throbbing beneath her fingers.
> 
> Several minutes later, he opens the bathroom door, steam billowing out behind him, rising up and rolling against the ceiling. The towel barely covers his bottom half and she tries not to stare at his cut abdominal muscles, the way the water droplets cling to his skin, tries not to think about how one tug will leave him naked. She fails.
> 
> "Sam?"
> 
> "I think you're killing me here, Dean," she whispers, hands tight against her knees. "Get dressed, okay?"
> 
> He doesn't say anything and she stares at the wall, listening to him rifle through the duffel until the bed dips beside her, cocking her head as a siren wails from the street below, muffled at first, the piercing suddenly loud as blue and red shadows jump along the ceiling before fading away. His long legs grow in the periphery of her vision, stretched out on top of the blankets.
> 
> Clearing her throat, she looks down at him. "Hey," he says, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It'll be okay, Sam. We'll find Dad and we'll kill that son of a bitch that did this to Mom and Jess, okay?"
> 
> Sam nods, lying down beside Dean, resting her head on his chest. "I know," she whispers. "I'm sorry about before, about yelling at you." Dean wraps an arm around her back, slowly trailing up and down her bare skin with his fingers. "Sometimes, it just gets to be too much."
> 
> "I'm sorry, babe," he says, the rumble in his chest loud against her ear.
> 
> Swallowing, Sam finally says in a burst of courage, "I want to, you know. With you, sometimes. Most of the time," the fingers on her arm still and tighten. "You're like everything that's right in my world right now and most of the time I'm so fucking scared that what happened to Mom and Jess will happens to you too. What if it keeps happening because of me? Because they loved me?"
> 
> Dean's arms tighten around her. "Sam, I've loved you since you were born. I've been in love with you since I was sixteen. If I was going to get pinned to a ceiling, I think it would have happened by now."
> 
> Raising her head, she stares down at him, his green eyes bright in the glow of the bedside lamp. "You're in love with me?" she whispers and he's silent, his eyes saying everything his mouth isn't. "But you never told me, never said anything," she rises and sits up next to him, hand on his heart. "You let me leave, and then let me chose Jess, never saying a word otherwise. Why?"
> 
> Dean rolls his eyes and sits up, bare feet on the floor, snagging his beer from the nightstand. He takes a deep swallow, and looks at her over his shoulder. "See this is why I don't go in for all that touchy-feely shit. Cause now you expect me to explain myself and I don't know what you want me to say."
> 
> "Dean," she says, begging with just his name falling from her lips.
> 
> "You deserved more than this, Sam. You deserved more than me, okay? You're a kick ass hunter, and you hated every minute of it. If you stayed, if I asked you stay to stay and you did, I was afraid you'd start to hate me like you do Dad."
> 
> "I don't hate Dad," she says to his back.
> 
> Dean snorts and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're not his biggest fan and I couldn't stand it if you looked at me the way you do him sometimes." Dean stops and gulps down the rest of his beer, getting up to grab another bottle. He turns and leans on the table, silhouetted against the lights from the street below.
> 
> “Dean,” she begins, unsure of what to say but quiets when he puts his hand up.
> 
> “Just let me finish, okay? I’m half kicked in the ass and I might as well lay it all on the line,” he takes another deep swallow from his bottle. “I mean, really Sam, why should you stay with me when you can have the whole world? You’re going to be a fucking lawyer. What can I offer you? No home, just a car with close to three hundred thousand miles on it and a wallet full of stolen credit cards not in my name. How I feel about you isn’t something I can explain or find in a Hallmark card.”
> 
> He pushes off the table and stands at the end of the bed. “Hell, I might even get you killed one day.”
> 
> Sam gets up on her knees, watching his hand clench around the beer bottle. “You won’t,” she whispers. “You’d rather die.”
> 
> “I _would_ die,” he says. She knee walks over to him, wrapping her arms around him. “God Sam, if you only knew what you do me, gutting and tearing me open and sewing me up again just with your fucking eyes.”
> 
> Sam chuckles against the skin of his neck, breathing a kiss there. “Nice fucking metaphor, Salinger.”
> 
> Dean drops the empty beer bottle with a thunk and slips his fingers under her Henley, his hand spanning her shoulder, thumb resting against the pulse under her chin. Sam buries her hands under the back of his t-shirt, the muscles quivering at her touch.
> 
> When he tilts her mouth up and kisses her, it’s a slow, gentle kiss, almost as if he’s doing it for the first time, or memorizing every sensation of her mouth against his. Softly, he kisses around her lips and along her jaw, hot breath caressing her skin. When he kisses her again, she’s the one who opens her mouth below his, tongue touching his, moving forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, hot and wanting him so fucking much. Pulling him backwards, he falls over her and she spreads her legs for him, his hips fitting perfectly against hers.
> 
> Later, when she awakens screaming he’ll wrap his arms around her, pulling her into his lap, holding her head against his chest and letting her sob. He’ll rock her back and forth, whispering nonsense words in her ear to calm her down, holding her tightly until she settles back into sleep.
> 
> Only then will she realize why he’s been getting a single bed all this time.
> 
>   
>  _comments are love ♥_   
> 

  



End file.
